I Heard A Voice
by UnsuaveOffTheMattress
Summary: No pairings, just suicidal Dean set around season 2. TW: attempted suicide, gore, substance abuse.
1. Chapter 1

I'm back, and I brought angst for days.

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I Heard A Voice

I heard a voice tonight.

I heard a faint, tinny whisper just beside my right ear as I held its complimentary hand out before me. The fingers shook and dripped bright red onto this faded, fake ceramic countertop in a makeshift motel kitchen as a result of what I have convinced my ridiculously naïve younger brother was an accident.

"It slipped." I told him in regards to one of the sharper knives as his twenty-three year old hazel eyes grew wider and wider and the sight of this glorious, suspiciously painless red river spanning nearly the entire length of my right forearm. "While I was cleaning it." He didn't look at my eyes, and for that, I am thankful for beyond words, because if he did, he would have seen in them that I was lying, and that I have grown too deadbeat and jaded to make any attempt at masking it.

He gasped my name in a generically exasperated tone. "Dean!" and I watched closely as his expression morphed from shock to lament with just a dash of disappointment. He knew that it wasn't an accident. I was outted completely, but he pretended to remain oblivious. The volume of his voice fell to little more than a whisper, and his tone fell downcast. "Go wash it off."

I complied absently, and left a trail of crimson splotches as I crossed the too-small, dark room to a grimy washroom with a sense of vacancy so unbearable that, once I reached the streaky mirror and looked into it, I looked more like a corpse than a boy. I stared in utter horror at my own eyes and pointed out every little thing that caused me to look so sickly. The under area of my eyes was little more than a charcoal smear of what looked like paint. My cheekbones were colorless and apparent, obnoxious, and my shirt, which was really his shirt, seemed to hang like a sheet of bright blue fabric over my increasingly bony shoulders and shrinking midsection. I'd been getting worse and worse over months, but at that moment I looked so sad and tired and unmotivated that it literally made my head start to hurt. I reached over to the small bag that I kept beside the sink and pulled out a bright white bottle of over the counter painkillers with my sticky, cherry red right fingers. I stared at it for a moment, and extended moment, a moment so long that it prompted an urgent and overbearing voice that came across so ugly and convincing that I didn't dare stray from its command.

"Do it!"

I slammed the thick plastic against the counter hard enough to tear the cap from the rest of the bottle and send chalky white circles all over the linoleum. I couldn't hear a thing at that moment, suddenly tormented with noises in my head so deafening that my entire mind became little more than a flurry of television static, microphone feedback, and that voice.

"Do it!"

I fell to my knees and managed to down them by the handful. No struggle, no water, and no more than thirty seconds before they were all gone and my lips tasted of metal courtesy of my right palm. I stayed on the cold floor and struggled to, A, catch my breath, and, B, keep the circles from coming back up. The voice didn't want that—she told me. I started to feel sick, but she threw my left hand over my mouth and forced me to stand. I was immensely uneasy after coming to terms with my actions, but despite wobbly knees, she pushed me towards the door and told me to, simply, get the whiskey. I had no choice but to comply, and I did, but I was left wondering who exactly she was.

I'd decided that she was the voice of sickness as I reached the so-called kitchen, where my other half tended with his back towards me to my sharp and candy-apple 'mistake'. My lips longed, then, for the otherwise unpleasant taste of poison, and I managed to obtain the mostly full glass bottle without being seen. I forced the top off numbly, and the metallic taste in my mouth was completely replaced with that of this most insisted on vice. It was drained within seconds, and he turned only as I slammed the bottle down on the counter.

The horror that overtook his boyish features provided a mental image as to how I must have looked with blood covering my hands and smeared about my mouth. I'd become a member of the infamous living dead at that moment, sloppy and dead-eyed, knee-deep in a ferocious self-induced emergency. He looked as though he was staring into the face of something so much worse than anything he had seen to date, and the more I thought about it, the more I realized that he was, taking into account our level of codependency. To say that he was scared would be a grotesque understatement, as his usual, slight linguistic censorship had completely left him.

"What the _fuck _did you do?!"

I took in a breath to respond, but before any words could surface, the voice started in again and stopped me. "Run!" She demanded, to which I pushed the bottle off of the counter and began to sprint back towards the washroom, where I knew I could look at myself and hopefully reason with her before it got any worse.

"Dean!" He followed faster than I could imagine, and literally threw me to the floor before I could reach the doorknob.

"Get off!" I screamed as he held me down with more strength than I knew he possessed. "Sam!"

"What did you do?!"

I squirmed in attempt to break free, but he remained both strong and determined, so I didn't get anywhere.

"Tell me what you did!"

She, the voice, didn't allow it. "Don't tell him!"

"Tell me!"

"Don't tell him!"

"Dean!"

"Dean!"

I forced myself to turn over and buried my face in my hands. He turned me back over, but I refused to look at him, and insisted on facing the floor. I was fully in tears at that point, as if I could have gotten any more pathetic, and begged him to stop touching me.

"Tell me what you did!"

The voice was angered with me at that point as well, and before I knew it, they were both screaming at me again.

"Shut up!" I demanded, addressing both of them, but intending to quiet her, as, while she wasn't real, she was loud, and with the static and feedback continuing to blare relentlessly, I was forced to choose which of them screamed at me.

I chose him.

I sat up and threw myself onto him, squeezing as tightly as I could.

"Dean-"

"I'm sorry," I breathlessly interrupted, holding onto him and gripping his shirt and sobbing into his shoulder. "I'm sorry."

He tried to push me back, but I didn't want to look at him, knowing how mortified he more than likely remained. "Dean-"

"I'll tell you everything later." I could hear myself slurring and I could feel my heart racing. "Just shut up."

xx

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The next thing I post won't be this angsty, I promise.


	2. Chapter 2

I said this was a one-shot, but then some people who I absolutely love for reading convinced me otherwise so this is gonna go on for a while.

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I'm lying on this ramshackle mattress, facing the faded door and waiting for him to walk back through it. A springtime shower drips gently down the dingy, curtained windows scattered about the walls, and television advertisements ramble quietly from the surprisingly stable satellite set parallel to my footboard. I don't remember why he left exactly, too tangled up in this web of thought to pay attention, but he left before it got light, and now this incredibly dull room is illuminated only by the bluish light of the television screen and the faint four-thirty streaks of clouded gray daylight.

My chest is buzzing like a radiator, not in a sick way or a drunk way, but in a confused way, as I have absolutely no idea what I should be feeling. The pills did nothing for me, nor did the whiskey, all coming back up in a matter of moments after that god-awful voice finally subsided. I don't want to think about it anymore, but it seems that I have to. I'm left wondering what triggered it. I've been depressed before, countless times, and I've gone through the grieving process for my father from start to finish, so what clicked? What finally tipped the scale and threw me into this plethora of anguish and ridiculously amplified emotion? I can't pinpoint anything in particular, so maybe it wasn't one thing in particular. Maybe it wasn't one specific event. Maybe it was everything—_every _event, everything that I've kept bottled up over the years catching up to me and setting off the repulsive voice of depression that told me relentlessly to abuse otherwise harmless substances. That's another thing—I could have ended it so easily. I could have taken something stronger or kept the knife with me or loaded a gun for god's sake, but I didn't, and that's somewhat comforting. Even when worst comes to worst, I truly do not want to take my own life, and will never be able to, even in the most hysteric of situations. I want to stay with him. I want to do my job. I want to keep living this life of gore and forced apathy, indifference to other people's well being and numb to their loss. Everything about this life is so unsympathetic, so emotionless, that I think that's the reason I did it.

I think that I did it just to feel something—to feel anything.

And I think that it worked, but only for a moment.

The once white door creaks open, and I simply watch him as he enters the room. "It's dark in here." He says. "Don't you want some light?"

I don't answer his question, just study him. From what I can see as he turns on a light, he's immensely tired, his eyes lackluster and his shoulders slouched. His clothes are drenched from rainwater, soaked all the way through. He slides off his jacket and throws it onto one of the wooden chairs surrounding an oval shaped and poor excuse for a kitchen table that he's placed a plastic bag atop of already. He's cold, I can tell by the way he crosses his arms over his chest and shivers as he looks at me the same way that he did when he was four years old.

"You okay?"

"Where were you?" I ask monotonously, to which he shrugs.

"Nowhere important."

"You didn't take the car."

My brother nods slightly, glancing away as he leans against the table.

"Where did you go, Sam?"

"The…uh…" he takes hold of the plastic bag he'd placed down earlier. "The gas station up the street."

I look at the bag, and then back at him, unconvinced, though too tired to care as much as I'm coming across to.

"We ran out of soap."

"Soap." I repeat simply.

"Soap," he returns. "For the shower that I'm about to take."

I nod, wondering why, exactly, he looks so tired when he normally goes days before showing any signs of it. I wonder, but I don't ask, because even though I care, I don't really care.

Not really.

xx

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angst angst angst angst I swear I'm a happy person and I swear this is different from what I've posted before just wait shhh


End file.
